A Jane Austen Encounter (22 page)

Richard peered at it. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid it looks like a 6 to me.”

“Well, whatever it is, this will take some time to decipher. It’s clear the book hasn’t been shelved yet or there would be a locator mark on the card. Would it be possible for you to call back in an hour or two? We’re open until 5:30.”

Richard assured her that they would be happy to return and Elizabeth was more than happy to be on their way. Breakfast had been hours ago in Chawton, and she wanted to eat before Evensong. She turned to ask Arthur if they could find a restaurant next, but he wasn’t browsing through the file of art prints with Gerri as she had thought. “Where’s Arthur?”

The words were no more than out of her mouth, however, than she heard a tread on the stairs and Arthur came around the corner. Everyone agreed they should eat, and a few minutes later they were sitting at an outdoor table covered with a Union Jack patterned cloth eating crispy, golden fish and chips. Elizabeth snapped a picture of hers before dousing it with malt vinegar.

A string of pennants fluttered overhead, a busker up the street played Vivaldi’s “Summer” on his violin, and people strolled along the street, chatting. The sun was warm on Elizabeth’s head, the fish sweet and succulent in her mouth. She turned to smile at Richard, then saw the familiar figure of a young woman with long blond hair in slim jeans walking beside a tall, grey-haired man in his characteristic turtleneck. “Beth! Paul!” she called.

“What fun to bump into you here,” Beth said as they joined the diners. “I was hoping we might see you at Godmersham. We’re going there tomorrow.”

“So are we,” Arthur answered. “If you’re heading that way too, you can take advantage of the tour Muriel arranged for us. I think Claire is still planning to meet us there as well.”

Elizabeth had the distinct feeling Arthur added that last more for Gerri’s benefit than for Beth’s. But now she wondered about Paul turning up with Beth. The publisher was saying something to Arthur about how much they all owed to Muriel and how he hoped this book would be a proper tribute to her. But surely that didn’t require her publisher to visit all the background sites himself.

Richard invited the newcomers to join them for Evensong, but Paul opted to stay there for fish and chips and Gerri and Arthur who were still nibbling on their chips stayed with them, so Elizabeth took Richard’s arm and they walked back toward the cathedral just as the bells began ringing again.

The quire was almost full when they arrived, but they found seats at the end of the dark, carved oak stalls. Elizabeth noted in her folder that the service would be sung by a visiting choir from Headington Boys School. She blinked, trying to recall why that name seemed familiar. Then she remembered—Headington was where C. S. Lewis’s home was, outside Oxford. Another site they must make time to visit. She was still thinking of all the places she wanted to see when, a few minutes later, the choir processed in, singing an anthem that the service sheet told Elizabeth was by Palestrina. Afterwards she couldn’t recall what the psalms were, but she did remember the Parry hymn “I Was Glad,” which was a favorite of hers. Mostly she remembered the angelic look of the choir boys in their blue cassocks with pie-crust ruffs framing their faces. She remembered the scent of the incense as the dean censed the altar during “The Magnificat” and the feeling that truly heaven had touched the earth.

She stood with the congregation as the choir recessed, focusing on the faces of each chorister. One boy on the far side with snapping dark eyes caught her attention for the intensity of his singing. Behind him, a slightly taller, equally dark-eyed boy walked with measured tread. Brothers, surely. Closer to her, a small blond looked up just in time to catch her eye and flash a mischievous grin. Behind him, a boy with curly, sandy hair and pink cheeks completed the procession. They turned the corner and processed out of sight, with only the echo of their clear soprano voices floating behind, leaving her feeling slightly bereft.

Elizabeth stole a sideways glance at Richard, whose calm features assured her he was feeling none of the old ache that on rare occasion washed over her. The might-have-been reverberation that reminded her that their son would have been a similar age to those boys.

Richard looked at his watch. “Just time to get back to that bookseller.”

“So have you decided to go ahead with the Watson theme for your thesis?” Elizabeth asked, following him down the length of the great nave.

“I’ve been thinking that a comparison of the various completions would make an interesting study. If I can find copies of them to compare.”

The early July evening greeted them with warm air and a soft breeze as they crossed the close and went out under the stone arch of the medieval gate.

As they crossed the square and started down Mercery Lane, Elizabeth remarked to Richard that she hoped Mrs. Whipple had succeeded in locating his book, but that if she didn’t, he could surely get a reader’s pass for the British Library, which would certainly have a copy. She was considering whether she should add that if he agreed to her idea of staying on at Oxford, he would have access to the riches of the Bodlien Library when Richard grabbed her arm. “Look! Something’s happened.”

She looked where he was pointing and saw the flashing lights of an ambulance in what was normally a pedestrian precinct. “Is that in front of Whipple’s?” She pressed forward through the crowd.

Indeed, they arrived just in time to see the medics carry a stretcher out the door of the shop. A breathing mask covered the face, but the frail form must be that of Francis Whipple. His wife emerged behind the bearers, squeezing her hands to her lips as if to stifle sobs. Elizabeth stepped forward and put an arm around the red-eyed woman. “Mrs. Whipple, is that your husband? What happened?”

“I don’t know. We were looking for that book your husband wanted. Francis thought it was upstairs, I was in the storage room . . .” She stopped to wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her sweater. “I heard this terrible clatter. He was lying at the bottom of the stairs. All bent. I—” She choked.

“Mrs. Whipple, was anyone else in the shop?”

“I don’t think so. I was in the back, but I didn’t see anyone.”

A female medic offered Mrs. Whipple a ride to the hospital and she left.

Elizabeth turned to Richard. “What do you think about that?”

“I suppose it could be a coincidence.” Richard’s voice held all the skepticism she was feeling.

Chapter 19

ELIZABETH WAS STILL PUZZLING over the events of Sunday evening the next day as they drove westward out of the city. They were late departing because Richard had been insistent that they inform the Canterbury police of their recent encounters. Without that background, no one would think there could be anything suspicious in a frail, elderly man stumbling on an ancient stairway. And, indeed, there might not have been.

They were passing flat, open fields when Elizabeth’s thoughts turned to the part she didn’t tell the police. It was all too vague even to put into words, and yet, she’d had a definite feeling . . .

The great oak doors in Christchurch Gate had been closed when they returned to the cathedral precinct the night before. They rang the bell at the side door and showed their pass as Lodge guests. It was a lovely feeling with all the worshipers, tourists, and staff gone for the day. The precinct was spacious and yet cozy at the same time. And so secure. The gate was locked behind them. Only herself and Richard and their fellow pilgrims in the entire grounds.

The sun was setting, sending a warm glow across the sky and striping the ground with long shadows. Elizabeth smiled, recalling their languid steps as, arm in arm, they walked around the back of the cathedral to the picturesque series of ruined arches of what must have been monastic buildings in medieval times. Graceful willows drooped over an ancient stone wall. Elizabeth peeped through an opening and was met with the sight of a hidden rose garden, all within sight of the soaring towers of the cathedral.

They followed the path on to another walled garden with a cross in the center inscribed, “Sacred to the memory of the sons and daughters of Kent who died in the Great War 1919.” By mutual consent, they walked to the far side and sat on a bench against the wall.

Was it then Elizabeth first had the sense of being followed? Even now she shivered at the memory. Or was it earlier, walking around the ruined walls? Surely it had been her imagination. The setting couldn’t have been more peaceful. They had the grounds entirely to themselves. And yet the feeling persisted.

She hadn’t mentioned it to Richard, not wanting to disturb him. They sat on in the quiet; the evening turning to night around them. When they moved on, they emerged from the garden in the dark just as the cathedral lights came on. It was a moment she would never forget as before Elizabeth’s very eyes, the entire cathedral came alive, blazing a glorious gold, every architectural detail highlighted by dozens of floodlights. The radiance held her in its grip. Until a shadow to her left moved.

From her memories of the velvety black night filled with its incandescent image and lurking shadows, Elizabeth returned to the present. The rural beauty of the narrow country road thickly bordered with green sped by outside her window. Arthur turned onto a private gravel drive, green fields dotted with trees on both sides, just as it must have been when the chaise brought Aunt Jane for one of her visits, and they arrived at Godmersham.

Ahead, on their right, horses and sheep grazed beneath a magnificent oak tree in a pasture that swept to a rolling hill on the horizon. To the left, the stately redbrick Georgian mansion built by the Knight family and inherited by Edward Austen Knight. They crossed a bridge spanning a small, placid river which Arthur identified as the Stour. Willows dripped their delicate branches into the smooth surface and a swan glided by. A short distance on, Arthur stopped in front of a dovecote standing beside a tidy redbrick house with roses climbing over its front. “I think this is the estate manager’s cottage. He said he’d meet us here. I rang him yesterday and explained about Muriel.”

The words were no more than finished when a man clad in khaki trousers and a blue shirt drove up in a Land Rover. “Hello, I’m Walter James.” He extended his hand. Arthur introduced his passengers and Walter suggested they follow him in their car, as he liked to start his tours with a surprise.

They drove behind the manager along a narrow track across a field and up a wooded hillside to a tiny folly temple nestled in the trees. Walter stood at the top of the steps on the colonnaded porch to welcome them. “I like to think of Jane coming here. She enjoyed strolling all over the park and she wrote to Cassandra about coming here. In one letter she said, ‘yesterday passed quite
a la
Godmersham: after dinner we visited the Temple Plantation, which to be sure is a Chevalier Bayard of a plantation.’ Which meant she thought it was the bees’ knees.”

He led on into the summerhouse where the visitors were greeted with a whimsical mural of Jane sitting by the window looking out over the sheep-dotted downs holding her quill pen in her hand. “Of course, Jane didn’t actually write up here—she used the large, comfortable library in the house.”

“Will we get to see it?” Elizabeth asked.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Walter’s voice sounded apologetic. “The house is a college for opticians. I’m afraid it isn’t open to the public.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. What a disappointment after coming so far. “Oh, I had hoped . . .”

“That can’t be right!” Gerri’s voice held the commanding ring Elizabeth had grown used to hearing from Muriel, but not from her assistant. “Dr. Greystone specifically requested a tour of the house. I’m certain of that.”

Walter seemed rather taken aback by Gerri’s demand. “I apologize if there’s been a mistake.”

Gerri stood her ground. “Surely there’s no reason we can’t see it. The college isn’t even in term.”

“No, but we do have another group staying here.” He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. Perhaps tomorrow?” He sounded uncertain.

“That will do very well.” Gerri obviously took the matter as settled.

Their guide turned to the back wall of the folly and opened the floor-to-ceiling paneled doors. Elizabeth gave a cry of delight. “Oh, what fun!” The doors opened onto a
trompe l’oeil
painting that gave the illusion that one could simply walk out into the woods, complete with a fat pheasant waiting beside the path.

As they turned to leave the temple through the real door, Walter pointed to the low ridge across the gently rolling, tree-bordered field. “That’s the North Downs Way. It was part of the way pilgrims followed in Chaucer’s time. Pilgrims walking to Canterbury would have had their first sight of the cathedral from there.”

They returned to their vehicles and their guide took them back down the hill, but before they reached the house, he turned and drove along a narrow road with a brick wall obscuring the park beside them. Walter stopped in front of a stone church with lancet windows and a square Norman tower. They walked under the lychgate and Elizabeth paused to survey the churchyard, dotted with graves, running down to the Stour. She couldn’t imagine a more peaceful setting for one’s final resting place.

Elizabeth took a deep breath of the fresh country air and entered the church porch with its simple wooden sign, “Jane Austen worshipped here.” Inside, the visitors were greeted with a profusion of pink roses and ivy decorating the font, looped in the branches of the colorful candelabra lining the aisle and winding the posts of the screen between the nave and chancel. “You’ve had a wedding,” Elizabeth said to Walter.

“Yes. Saturday. The bride grew up at Court Lodge Farm next door. Her family has lived here for generations. She teaches in a boys’ school in Oxfordshire now, but quite naturally wanted to be married in the church she grew up in.”

“So this is a living church?”

“Very much so. Our congregation is small, but we have regular services and activities for the local youth. There’s been a church here from at least the eleventh century. Of course, it was ‘improved’ in mid-Victorian times, so there’s little Jane would recognize here.”